


Otherside

by coquettish_murder_muffin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Black Comedy, Disturbing Themes, Ghosts, Hallucinations, Hannibal is an undertaker, Happy Ending, It's actually sweet, M/M, Weird!Will, Will sees dead people, six feet under AU, young!Hannibal, young!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 12:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10696827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coquettish_murder_muffin/pseuds/coquettish_murder_muffin
Summary: “I like you,” he confesses, because he does not have to look at him when he says it.A low hum of a machine as it switches on.“I wish you had told me that before.”“I’m sorry.”He listens to the sloshing fluids. Blood drains from his body as a mixture of chemicals filter into it.“I suppose you will have to tell me another time,” Hannibal says.“But I’m dead.”“It serves you right, if we’re being honest.”





	Otherside

**Author's Note:**

> I was experiencing some serious Donnie Darko and Six Feet Under feels and I needed to write them down. 
> 
>  
> 
> [The Other Side](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dhz-2upqTuk)

Will Graham is hardly interested in the dead man alone, but in the impressive reconstruction of the face, especially after being shot point-blank in the head. His eyebrows raise impressively high, unable to hide his fascination. Hopefully, the grieving family does not see.

He didn’t know the man, and he doesn’t want to be here, but his colleagues said it would be rude of him if he didn’t at least attend the viewing. The dead man could be asleep, quite different from the doll-like bodies he’s seen in other funerals. Caked with makeup, so much it’s disgusting, hair styled in a way that was unnatural to them in life; and the emptiness that always hides below the pretty clothes and all the powder. “I’m dead,” the look says, “I’m gone. Why would you cry for me if I am not here? You people are silly.” But here, he could almost be alive.

“Impressive,” Will murmurs.

The dead man opens his eyes, removing the caps that kept the lids in place. He pulls out the mouth former with a good yank, ripping the sutures that tied his jaw together. “Did a good job, didn’t they?”

“Yep.”

“You know, that bitch over there didn’t even like me,” the dead man tells him, pointing to a thin woman who wails loudly across the room. She wears an ungodly amount of jewelry and it jingles with each shake of her shoulders. People rush to console her.  

“This is supposed to be my day, not hers. _I’m_ the dead one.”

Will catches himself smiling, and quickly excuses himself from the line of mourners.

The dead man lies in his coffin, very dead, and not talking.

Busy kicking himself for the slip, he doesn’t see the older lady in his path, and when they bump together he apologizes profusely. She stares at him as though she’s seen a ghost. He can relate.

Hands settle on his arm, tugging him away from the poor woman and to the back wall by the flowers.

“Sir, are you feeling all right?”

Will comes face to face with a petite blonde, dressed in a plain black pantsuit. The only splash of color is her blue eyes, outlined in heavy charcoal. Everything about her is professional, save for her makeup and the worn boots that don’t match the outfit she currently wears, and give away her rebellious streak. Teenager.

She carries herself with an air of self-importance, but her intentions are pure. He can’t fault her for being vain; she’s pretty, and life is too short to pretend otherwise for the sake of the envious.

“It can be hard to process,” she assures him, when he remains silent. “Do you need privacy?”

Before he can shake his head, she ushers him into a small room closed off by curtains. Hardly private, but inside the lights are not so harsh, and there are comfy-looking couches and a box of tissues that she immediately picks up and hands to him.  

He hugs it to his chest, because he’s not sure what else to do.

“I didn’t know him,” Will explains, his tone flat.

“It is still overwhelming for some,” she says, but he cuts her off.  

“I don’t really care, I mean. I’m not bothered by it and it wasn’t my idea to attend. Do you work here?”

Her brow furrows in mild confusion, but overall she seems relieved; she probably wasn’t looking forward to listening to him cry. “Yes, my family owns this funeral home.”

“Who reconstructed that officer’s face?”  

“Sir, have you been drinking?”

He leans back, away from her flaring nostrils. He was only trying to make small talk. “What? No!”

“Have you taken any drugs?”

“Jesus,” he groans, dropping onto one of the couches.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she says, looking kind of inconvenienced.

Will snorts. “It’s not like I want to be here. If you would show me the door, I’ll _gladly_ —”  

Soft footfalls announce the presence of another, and then the parting of the curtains reveals the most beautiful thing he has ever seen in his life.

“Mischa, please, people are in mourning—Oh, I’m sorry.”

Will is not sorry. He stares, open-mouthed and unashamed at the lanky young man entering the room, at his neatly pressed suit and the high cheekbones, the maroon in his eyes, his slicked back hair, and the downright regal, straight-backed posture.

“She’s trying to throw me out,” Will says helplessly, because if he doesn’t speak to him at least once, he might do something drastic.   

If he’s lucky, Pretty Boy will escort him out of the building.

“Pardon?” 

“I think he just wandered in off the street,” Mischa explains, crossing her delicate arms in a surprisingly menacing manner.  

“I did _not_ ,” Will says with a scowl. “I was invited, and I don’t see what I’ve done wrong. I’m a police officer.”

Mischa laughs at that.

The handsome young man seems to be weighing his options, his gaze lingering a little too long on the rookie, fresh out of the academy and arguably very civilian-looking. “What did he do, then?”

“He’s weird!” the girl complains, beginning to sound her age.

“Excuse me!”

“Mischa, please, don’t be rude.”

“But he _is,_ Hannibal! He smiled at the man in the coffin! He walks like a zombie! What if he’s a murderer?”

“My _name_ is Will Graham, and I am not a murderer.”

“That’s lovely,” Mischa says. “And exactly what a murderer would say.”

“Mischa!”

“ _Hannibal._ ”

“Fine, I’ll leave,” Will says, just to avoid more confrontation. Voices are rising, and curtains aren’t soundproof.  

Going on the childish bickering, it’s safe to assume they are siblings, and he sees it clearly in the seething looks the two exchange. The same sharp-boned facial structure, the shared accent, the wrinkling of their noses at the other.

“You never listen to me,” Mischa grumbles under her breath, turning away and refusing to look at either of them. “I’m telling Mother you let a homeless drunk inside our house.”

“Oh, good grief, I’m not—”

“Follow me, Will Graham.” Hannibal extends a hand, and Will’s mouth closes.

He can’t think of anything to say other than _I like your pompadour_ so he just stands.  

When he passes through the curtains, he spares the girl a look. She’s wrinkling her nose at him too, and in a moment of weakness he makes a similar face back at her.

People are still milling around in the viewing room, speaking in hushed tones that create a low hum, but some must have overheard the conversation because plenty are staring at him and unfortunately, that includes some of his colleagues. He pointedly ignores the cold glare from one, and the dumbfounded mouthing _“What the hell did you do now?”_ from another. One of them laughs, fully expecting his ‘shenanigans,’ and stops when they are punched hard in one shoulder.

The foyer is mercifully empty, and it’s there that Will realizes he’s still holding the tissue box, grasping it like a small treasure. He snorts.

Hannibal glances over his shoulder, his steps coming to a halt. The smile that twitches in the corner of his mouth is incredibly appealing, almost secret, and it sobers Will immediately. He tries to look properly ashamed of himself for causing a scene, but he knows his hunched shoulders and tight grip on the tissues must come off as weird, as the little sister called him.

He’s been called that before, and worse.

“I apologize on behalf of my sister, Mischa,” Hannibal says, offering to take the tissues from him. Will lets it go, taking the opportunity to look him in the eyes, to study the hint of dark circles underneath. Incredibly handsome, but troubled, behind the indifference. Who wouldn’t be, working with death on a daily basis?

“It’s no problem,” Will lies, but it’s becoming the truth with each passing moment he spends here, counting his blessings for being in the right place at the right time. This conversation is sure to be the highlight of his day.

“She is often in a poor mood,” Hannibal explains. “We recently lost our father in an accident, and it has been weighing heavily on her mind.”

Will’s heart sinks, and he feels genuinely bad for them. “Oh. I’m sorry for your loss. It can’t help to be surrounded by, well, you know.” He clears his throat. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I might have asked her a…an unusual question.”

Hannibal raises a brow, making no effort to continue showing him out. “Do tell.”

“Well, the officer’s head was blown wide open, we all thought it would be closed casket. But he looks, like, brand new, and not at all…dead. I was surprised. I asked her who did the reconstruction and she asked me if I was on drugs.”

“Are you?”

“No! I mean, yes, but it was prescribed to me. Look, I know I’m weird. But I can’t help it. I’ve tried. It just slips out.”

“It’s fine to be weird.”

“Right?” he sighs, relieved to finally hear it from someone else. It fades fast with realization. “But of course you would say that. You have to live here with dead people.”

“On the second floor,” Hannibal confirms with a nod, sparing a look to the stairs. “But it really isn’t as unsettling as people would assume.”

“Oh,” Will says lamely, because he’s run out of words, and shifts from foot to foot when complete silence follows.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Hannibal Lecter.”

“Will Graham,” he says, and winces because he’d already said it earlier.

Shouldn’t he be leaving?

Hannibal is watching him, but he doesn’t move out of the way, nor does he gesture with his arms, or even frown. Finally, he speaks again, pride warming the delicious purr of his voice, “It was me.”

“It was what?”

“I did the reconstruction.”

“Oh, hell! It was really impressive, he would have been happy with it.” Will scrambles to compliment him, to show his appreciation, and his own smile grows crooked with pleasure when the young undertaker preens from the attention.

It suits him.  

“It was work, but I like the challenge. Did you know him?”

“Not alive,” Will blurts out.

This is why he doesn’t talk to people.

Hannibal cocks his head to one side, but beyond that he is unbothered by the comment, and makes one of his own: “I often talk to them, myself, while I work. The dead make excellent confidants.”

He couldn’t possibly mean it in the way that Will does, but it is a comfort, nevertheless, and he feels his heart swell dangerously in his chest at this beautiful boy speaking such wonderfully peculiar things to him, beginning to rival his own strangeness.

“They just argue with me,” Will says wryly, which earns him a smile, and he’s both glad and disappointed that Hannibal thinks it was a joke.

“Come with me.”

Will’s mouth fills with cotton. Hannibal moves in the opposite direction of the exit.

It would be rude to refuse, he reasons with himself.

He thinks nothing of it, of the descent into a basement where chemicals assault his senses and knock him off balance with the strength of it, and the cleaning supplies he scents underneath it all. It doesn’t smell like _death_ , but it smells medical, and it does make him a little tense.

The lights are incredibly bright, as is the room itself, impeccable and new, with large silver trays in the middle of the room that he imagines must hold bodies. Drains in the floor, and he doesn’t have to guess why. He creeps himself out imagining it clogged. There are large sinks, and several cupboards filled with tools and other mysteries, but what catches his attention is the stereo not-so-discreetly placed on the edge of one counter and the shelves of books in the free corners of the room. Heavy texts, but he spies some classic novels in there, too, and some other books with foreign-sounding titles.

He hears the flick of a lighter, smells the thick burn of a cigarette, and finds Hannibal leaning against one of the asylum-white walls.

“Should you be smoking in here?” Will asks, curious.

“It’s mine now,” Hannibal says simply, wisps of smoke falling from his mouth, and when he offers the cigarette to Will he jumps at the chance.

“Why’d you bring me down here?” he asks, enjoying this all too much, lips tingling where he knows Hannibal’s just were. He doesn’t even smoke. But he does today.

“I thought you might appreciate it. This is where I work, where I can lose myself in it, without upsetting those upstairs that would rather not discuss it. I don’t prevent decomposition, I prolong it, but it’s kinder for them to pretend otherwise. For a culture that makes such an enormous performance out of burying their dead, they do love to pretend it doesn’t happen, don’t they?”

They share the cigarette in a companionable silence, until Will has nothing left to do with his hands, and nothing to preoccupy his mind other than the gorgeous director in front of him. He decides to say whatever pops into his head.

“There’s no sense of time down here. It could be day or night, and I wouldn’t know. It’s closed off from the rest of the world.”

“It’s safe.”

Will shifts his gaze to the side. “Yeah. I was thinking something like that.”  

“The dead don’t judge us,” Hannibal says, tilting his head, trying to look Will in the eyes, even as he stubbornly refuses. “Is that why you talk with them? Do they provide a comfort for you?”  

“They come to _me_ ,” Will murmurs, muscles tight. It’s unlikely that Hannibal believes him, and more likely that he’s poking, having a bit of fun, and treating it like a metaphor. If only he knew. “It’s not like I ask them to, and it’s useless to tell them no. They’re stubborn bastards, with nothing but time on their hands. Why do _you_ talk to them? I doubt they answer you.”

“It’s hard to find someone else to talk to.”

Their eyes meet, and whether he believes him or not, Will feels a special connection with him there, in that specific moment. Two lonely men, just boys, too young to know the misery of being an outcast, but they do. They know it well.

Life is not fair.

“I’m sorry about your dad.”

“It’s fine.”

Damn that this is inappropriate, that a dead man lies in his coffin on the floor above with a family that grieves for him, that dead men have lain here, draining, that he hardly knows him—

Will drops the butt of the cigarette in his haste, pushing his way between Hannibal’s thighs and trapping him against the wall before their mouths come together with a clash of teeth and tongue. It’s mixed with a sweet softness, just as confusing as it is wonderfully refreshing. He tastes like sugar, almost, and he smells good, not at all what Will expected from a man who spends his time with embalming fluid and smoke.

Hands frame Will’s face, pulling him in to deepen the kiss, and it becomes careful and slow and so gentle that he could weep from the kindness being shown to him, from the sheer innocence of it.

“I believe this might be considered unethical, officer,” Hannibal says, but Will knows he doesn’t give a shit.

“I don’t care.” Will presses closer and fumbles with the suit jacket until it falls to the floor and he can feel him properly.

“Good.”

They explore each other through their clothes, though the layers between are fast becoming scarce, kissing and swiping their tongues across teeth and biting down hard enough to make the other squirm, hands ruining hair and wandering down to belt buckles. Will hoists him up, enjoying the surprised noise Hannibal emits, the thighs that squeeze his hips as they grind together, disheveled messes that they are.

He hears nothing but the sound of their hurried breathing, no whispers from the deceased, demands to listen to them, to laugh at their jokes and indulge them in their last wishes. Just this.

Flushed, Will manages to free them both, stroke them together and shudder at the contented sigh from the man he holds.

This is not something he does. It thrills him, chills rushing up and down his spine as he pleasures them both, feels them twitching and throbbing, and he almost slides to the floor when a low moan escapes Hannibal first.

He comes from it, unable to handle such a charming sound, spilling over his own hand and creating a mess, but he feels less bad about it when his companion follows soon after, and with more of a show.

Will hides his face in Hannibal’s shoulder, almost heaving. “Was that a, ah, bad idea?”

“Do you regret it?”

He loves the small tremble in the voice, still recovering.

“No.”

“I believe you have your answer, then.”

“I guess I do,” Will says, finding his mouth to kiss, delighted when Hannibal opens, pliant to his wishes.

A series of knocks on the door send them both into a panic. Will almost drops him. He’s cursing and rushing to the sink, zipping his pants up, Hannibal doing the same but in a more graceful manner than Will, even if the fear is quite obvious in his wide eyes.

_“Hannibal?”_

The muffled voice belongs to a woman.

Hannibal grabs Will, running his hands down the front of his shirt and taming his hair, and then he swiftly does the same for himself before speaking, loud enough to be heard through the door. “Yes, Mother?”

Will should probably be very, very ashamed, but he only wants to laugh.

The door swings open with a squeak, light feet coming down the stairs, and a beautiful fair-headed lady pokes her head around the corner. She looks like Mischa, and her voice is like honey, and her accent thicker than such. Her smile is sad. “Darling, we need you out there, not down here. Oh, I see. Is this a friend?”

“I’m not—”

“Will Graham,” Hannibal says, at the same time. His smile is contagious, good-mannered and completely faultless. “He’s interested in becoming a mortician. I thought a quick tour might prove to be educational.”

“How sweet of you!”

“Yes, very sweet,” Will agrees, reeling from the events of the day so far.

They escape unscathed, passing the _extra_ sweet, but clueless mother. Chemicals still sting in his nose, but the flowers leading to the exit are helpful in clearing it out. He stops at the front door, unbalanced and breathless, and glances over his shoulder.

He doesn’t want to leave.

_I’ve only just found you._

Hannibal smiles at him, his face bright in the midst of the grief and frustration that surrounds his work, and Will can’t help but admire him for that. He seems to take it in stride, not quite laughing in the face of death but treating it like just another day. He isn’t gloomy at all, not like Will.

Someone who might be capable of understanding him.

He feels himself becoming attached, and that’s never attractive.

He just jerked them off.   

In the embalming room.

In a funeral home.

Will knows he’s screwed in the head, that he makes mistakes, but it’s rare that he actually does something this bad.  

He can see the disappointment when he doesn’t ask for Hannibal’s number.

“I’ll see you around?”

“Yes…”

_Fuck._

“Good evening, Will,” Hannibal forces out, with a politeness that makes Will feel worse, while he steps off the porch and shoves his hands in his pockets and walks down the street alone. When he dares to look back, Hannibal is gone.

The dead officer waves at him from a window, throwing up all sorts of inappropriate gestures and laughing hysterically. Will goes home.

He sleeps poorly, fitful enough to kick his dogs out of bed and almost cry from the shame of it when it happens, but they forgive him, as dogs do, and he hugs one of the bigger ones to his chest while he dreams.

He lies on one of the large silver tables, in the nude save for a cloth that is respectfully draped across his waist. His skin feels cold, especially without clothes, but this is a chill that reaches his bones, in every fiber of his being. His body temperature is incredibly low, his blood has stopped pumping.

Curiously, he lifts his head and comes face to face with Hannibal, who sits in a chair pulled up beside him.

“What are you doing?”

Hannibal blinks. “I’m working.”  

“Oh.”

He waits for him to proceed.

Will squeezes his eyes shut and makes a face as disinfectant is sprayed on him, and carefully wiped away. “Is this really necessary?”

“Are you telling me how to do my job?” Hannibal asks, but he’s smiling.

He thinks it odd, being shaved by someone other than himself, but he allows it because it brings them closer. Hannibal’s touch is calculated and surprisingly soft, and his fingers drag a little too much against Will’s cheek, over his lips. More than once, Will is tempted to open his mouth. It tickles. More, when hands press against his limbs, massaging his muscles. Looseness gradually eases through his body, breaking the stiffness caused by death.  

“You’re kind of handsy.”

Hannibal is visibly unimpressed, entirely professional. “And you are mouthy. Excuse me,” he says, while Will tries not to writhe, his eyelids lifted and something uncomfortable pushed inside. His eyes are forced closed.

He’s grateful, because he doesn’t particularly want to see the knife cutting through the skin above his clavicle, or the insertion of the drain tubes.

“I like you,” he confesses, because he does not have to look at him when he says it.

A low hum of a machine as it switches on.

“I wish you had told me that before.”

“I’m sorry.”

He listens to the sloshing fluids. Blood drains from his body as a mixture of chemicals filter into it.

“I suppose you will have to tell me another time,” Hannibal says.

“But I’m dead.”

“It serves you right, if we’re being honest.”

“Pardon?”

“One might call you rude, only speaking to souls after they become lost, not bothering to help those who are still here and reachable because you fear rejection where it, perhaps, does not exist. You can do both, Will. It can be different. I like you too.”

“I…”  

Hands brush through his hair, gentle.

“Come and find me.”

Will opens his mouth to protest, and chokes when something sharp stabs into his chest, spearing his organs.

He wakes in a cold sweat, holding himself tight and recovering from a clawed paw bruising his chest as the dog leaps off the bed.

Life is precious.

He dresses early, intent on his mission.

After some rapid pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, he jogs to the front door of the funeral home and quietly pushes his way inside. The viewing rooms are empty, and he supposes the dead man has gone in both body and spirit. Yet he is still spooked, flinching when he sees a slender form in the corner of his eyes, leaned against the frame of a doorway and watching him struggle for a sound excuse.

Mischa distrusts him, but she does not call for help or try to have him removed, and that must mean something. Instead, she narrows her eyes and keeps the distance. “You’d better fix whatever you did to my brother.”  

Will is speechless for a moment, and his heart stutters wildly in his chest. “What happened? Is he okay?”

The girl groans dramatically. “He’s insufferable! He won’t stop smiling, he doesn’t listen to me and his eyes go all _dreamy_ , like this,” she says, fluttering her lashes at him. “He hasn’t been so happy since before Daddy died. It’s annoying.”

He opens his mouth to deny what hasn’t been spoken, but she shakes her head and points a finger between his eyes. “ _Don’t_ think I didn’t notice he went missing yesterday. When he came back he was red in the face. Blushing! During a viewing! And he calls _me_ unprofessional.”  

Despite her hostility, he sees past it, at the smile that threatens to form, which she struggles to control.

“He _hugged_ me this morning. I won’t stand for it,” she says, stepping back to press against the wall and let him pass. “He’s in the basement.”

Will pauses in the doorway, observing her knowing smile, and one of his own shines back at her.

She rolls her eyes, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. “I knew you were crazy.”

“Thank you, Mischa.” It’s sincere, but he can’t resist ruffling her already-messy hair, and he enjoys the disgruntled but tame noise she makes in response.

He finds it again without trouble, pushing the door open with a deep breath. The usually squeaky hinges are drowned out by a low noise, music coming from the stereo.

He descends the stairs, one at a time, afraid to disturb. He hesitates when he reaches the corner, watching Hannibal lean over a clothed body, his sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hands are at work, styling long golden hair. It’s a beautiful woman. Her death was tragic, but she’s in good hands.

Strangely, it’s not her that he sees standing beside Hannibal.

He sees another man, broad-shouldered and strong, standing close. His expression is pleased. His eyes are painfully familiar, the set of his jaw similar to the younger man he watches over. His hair is graying, but it was once the same rich color. He smokes a cigarette, but it does not smell.

“He is talented, isn’t he?” brags the man, without looking at their visitor.   

Hannibal doesn’t react to the words, doesn’t hear them.

The older man puts a hand on his shoulder.

Hannibal stops and furrows his brow, seeming confused.

Will clears his throat.

Hannibal sees him then, forgetting whatever had bothered him. His features give away his surprise and joy, before he can school them into something friendlier and more appropriate. But the gleam in his eyes remains. “Hello, Will.”

The older man stretches and flicks the cigarette to the floor.

“It’s time for me to go,” he says, as though he must catch a train. “He’s your problem now, not mine. Good luck, because he’s absolutely ridiculous.”

He walks without sound, pausing at the foot of the stairs. “You’ll take care of him then, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Will breathes, to them both.  

“Good.”

With a very fond look at his son, the older man is gone. It’s as simple as that.

Hannibal raises a brow, unaware of what has taken place, but he trusts the peculiar stranger. His eyes are maddening, dark like blood, curious and captivating, and unknowingly tie a tight string around Will’s heart. It loops around when his lips twitch, with just the beginning of a smile.  

“Hey,” Will says with a warm, crooked smile of his own. It grows wider as they both shuffle their feet, too shy, blushing, and youthful.

Keeping company with death, but not joining it just yet.

 


End file.
